For a time I claimed this piece a novel, until a reader set me straight, pointing out it wasn't that. Though it is pulled together in a fashion, the story comprises three narratives, each of which could stand alone. The reason for this was I had six months to write and in that time I wanted to write something about family, something about life in bedsit-land and something about awkward approaches to the opposite sex. Two months went to each.

In the feedback of people who have read Waterloo there is one common thread. They complain that the least interesting character is the narrator and that they are far more interested to learn more about the mother or the brother.